37. 34 Years Later
Chapter thirty-seven
The beach at Sound Hollow in the spring offers more than just solitude.
The water is clearer, with less seaweed and more of that pale greenish-blue color that’s unique to the Northeast. I’ve visited beaches all along the east and west coast, in Hawaii, Bermuda, and the Caribbean, and despite the pink sand and oleander, the endless lighthouses, the surf-worthy waves or the flying dolphins, none of those beaches are quite as special as this one.
Seated on a towel on the ground, I let the tiny rocks filter through my withered fingers as I stare out at the water, absent-mindedly remembering.
“So, it was here?” Brett asks. Snapping out of my fog, I look at her.
Time has been more than kind; she’s grown into a stunning woman with a mix of shiny dark hair, olive skin, and ever-curious, deep brown eyes.
Her glasses were exchanged for contact lenses at the start of high school, and she’s tan from her recent family trip to California to see her mom. “This is where you guys fell in love?”
“Yes.” I smile, holding a folded piece of paper to my heart. “About a million Beach Sundays ago.” I explain.
“It’s definitely a magical place,” Brett says. “Every time I’m here, it’s like time stops.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “You sort of feel like a teenager again, right? Only, without all the bad parts?”
“Exactly.” Brett fishes a piece of green beach glass out of a small mound of pebbles beside her.
Running her thumb along the smooth edge, she goes on.
“Kind of like beach glass. When you toss it out into the sea, it’s basically just a broken beer bottle.
But when it comes back to you, the waves and constant tumbling into the shore transform all those sharp edges into something beautiful. ”
“I think time weathers our memories, too,” I add. “Somehow, at the end, if you’re lucky, the bad ones sort of wash away and you’re left with only the good. Your grandma told me that once.”
“When?”
“After your grandpa passed away.” It was just after his 85th birthday.
Paul succumbed to a heart attack that took him swiftly at the grocery store one afternoon following a round of golf.
Diana had a stroke not long after, and ultimately went peacefully in her sleep.
My father sent his condolences from his assisted living facility, a place where Aunt Lucy’s money continued to serve us well every month when I paid his bills.
(She’d passed years earlier, and I learned she was more well off than any of us realized.) Thankfully, I’d been able to situate him in a facility just a few towns over, so these days, I’m able to visit frequently.
We discuss politics, current events, Brett and her family, and sometimes we speak about the past, but not often.
Forgiveness is a powerful thing. Relationships morph and change, and letting go of the past is like shedding old skin: it’s uncomfortable, but it’s the only way to grow.
After Leyla came home the spring when Matt and I reunited, he tried to make it work with her.
Turns out Hollywood wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, at least not on that trip.
The producer who hired Leyla for the Netflix series wasn’t thrilled with her performance or the fact that she became a diva overnight.
He had no time for that sort of nonsense, so he fired her abruptly, sending her home with her tail tucked between her legs.
Matt took her back, though he didn’t trust her at all.
That eventually became a point of contention they couldn’t overcome—and the allure of acting crept in again not long after, sending Leyla first to New York City, and then back out to the West Coast, this time for good.
As the seasons passed, they developed a rhythm that included four trips a year to visit Leyla on the West Coast, where she had decided to stay.
Custody was not an issue; as Matt predicted, Leyla was engrossed in her budding career, which evolved from daytime soaps to a primetime stint on, of all things, a medical drama.
During the seventh week of our first summer reunited at Sound Hollow, I planned a Special Day.
Special Days happened only once a summer, and they held some of my fondest memories of camp when I was young.
They were themed days where, instead of classes, the whole camp participated in a program.
One year, the counselors told us we were going to Disney World.
They filed us into the Lodge (pretending it was an airplane with the windows covered in cloud sheets), only to have us watch a movie while the staff hustled to put together a Disney-themed all-camp program.
They spray painted Mickey Mouse stencils all down the main road, offered game stations (similar to that of a carnival) and had staff members dress up as characters.
The day was marked by a big parade, and every group participated by making a parade float that celebrated a particular Disney movie.
Anyway, the first Special Day that I ever planned as the camp director was a wedding theme, something I had seen a number of times over the course of my youth.
I planned it for two of the unit leaders: Ben and Charlotte, who had been dating for the whole summer.
Ben “proposed” at breakfast, and the whole camp spent all day preparing for the wedding (including a bridal shower for the girls and a “bachelor party” fishing trip for the boys).
The evening program was the wedding itself, and it went off without a hitch—only, when it was time for Ben’s toast at the reception, he handed the mic off to Matt, who made a speech, got down on one knee in front of me, and pulled out a real diamond ring.
“I’ve waited far too long for our forever to begin. Marry me, Taylor,” he said.
“This wasn’t part of the script,” I whispered.
“Because this is the real thing,” he replied, smiling with tears in his eyes.
We wed at the gazebo on the cliff that fall, surrounded by friends and family, happier than we’d ever been.
And so it went. This year marked our 30th summer running Sound Hollow together.
The Gate House became our home. Brett loved camp.
She stayed in a cabin with other girls her age and learned how to plant seeds, make stained glass projects, and start a proper campfire, among many other things.
She eventually became a counselor who taught creative writing to campers.
Indeed, this beach was just as much a home to her as it was to me and her dad.
Matt thrived in his role as facilities manager, keeping the buildings in good shape and rehabbing the spaces that needed it.
Brett offered her youthful, artistic vision and cabins were painted in every color of the rainbow, with embellishments like flower boxes on the windowsills and little porches with chairs where kids could enjoy an ice cream cone from the canteen or read a book or write a letter home.
My workload lightened during the school year.
I’d visit the center once a week and stay in Jamaica overnight, but otherwise I was able to work remotely from camp, which gave me the ability to cook dinner for my family every evening and be there to tuck Brett in at bedtime.
It also enabled me to keep on top of Matt’s doctor’s appointments and still have plenty of room in the weekly schedule to drive back to Bethpage for Friday night suppers with Diana and Paul.
“I know you guys will look out for her. Everyone will. But do you really think she’s ready?” Brett asks me now, fidgeting with the rocks between us. I can tell she’s nervous.
"Camp changes us, sweetie. It changes everything." I inhale, hoping my plan will help. “I brought something I wanted to read to you,” I say.
“Okay,” Brett replies, inspecting the pebbles at her feet.
I clear my throat. “This is dated March 15th. Thirty-four years ago, if you can believe it. Dear Matt,” I begin. “I have thought about you every day for the past seven years. You may not believe me, but it’s true. Leaving you was the worst mistake I ever made, and it is my biggest regret.
“People don’t talk much about regrets in regular day-to-day chitchat.
You have to get to a really dark place and hang out there for a while to own your regrets.
It’s hard to look at them; for me, it’s kind of like looking at myself in the mirror with no makeup on first thing in the morning.
Every wrinkle, pimple, and scar sit there on full display, and I wonder, ‘Man, is this really what I look like? Is this really who I am?’ and it reminds me of how I still fake it all the time.
How, just to be normal, I have to pretend I’m fine, cake on the makeup, plaster on a smile, go out there in the world and pretend I don’t spend every minute of my life pining over the one who got away.
The one who I pushed away—who I left—and who cannot be replaced by anyone else, regardless of how I try.
“My therapist used to say that we do to others what has been done to us. I was left behind, and I left you behind. Twice. I couldn’t see the solutions you were offering—the way you were trying to show me that I came first. Instead, I took your love and cast it aside, letting the ache of my pride get in the way of the best relationship I ever had.
I left you, Matt Thompson, the kindest, most generous friend I ever had.
“So, you moved on. Of course you moved on; you had to, there was really no other option considering the fact that I literally pushed you back into Leyla’s arms. But now, you’re sick.
” At these words, my voice begins to quiver.
“This man who I still love is sick, and I may never get the chance to properly apologize. It’s one thing to say you’re sorry; it’s another to prove it.
That’s something I’ve learned. So, enclosed you’ll find a check for $10,000.
I didn’t want to donate on your GoFundMe page because I wanted to have the chance to explain that this is more than just a fleeting donation.
This is a promise. If you’ll let me back in to your life, I will do whatever I possibly can to help you and your family get through this awful time.
If you need more money, I’ll give you more money.
If you need help with your daughter, or with shopping, or being taken to appointments, or anything, really, I’ll be there.
My number is (516) 555-3181. Please, call me anytime.
Let me prove to you how sorry I am for walking away and how much I still care about you.
I won’t screw it up this time. I promise.
With all the love in my heart, your friend always, Taylor. ”
I fold up the letter. Brett hugs her knees into her chest, staring out at the father and daughter splashing at the edge of the Sound.
“It all started here,” I remind her. “A forever love—the very best kind—sprouted like a seed planted on this sacred ground.” I place my hand on top of hers and nod at the girl in the waves.
“That's the gift this place gave us: a safe place to learn how to take care of ourselves and each other. Camp made me who I am today.” I pause. “She’s going to be great, honey. Sending her here will change her life for the better.”
“But Saratoga is so far away from Long Island,” Brett laments.
“I know, but your dad and I are here. Plus, it’s only two weeks.”
“What if she gets homesick?” Brett asks.
“Then it means you’re doing something right, giving her something to miss,” I reply.
“Miss what?” a voice interrupts us, as some grains of errant sand are kicked up beside me. A large bare foot is to blame. I squint and look up at the owner of said foot.
He hands me a can of barbecue Pringles.
“I can’t believe you went all the way back for these,” I say, gratefully accepting.
“I’ve done crazier things. Anyway, what’d I miss?”
I jut my chin out at Brett. “She’s nervous. I was just reminding her that she’s about to give Amelia the best summer of her life.”
“Mommy! Watch us,” the girl calls out from the shoreline. “Daddy’s showing me how to skip rocks!”
“I’m watching,” Brett calls back.
Matt plops down beside me. “You’re really scared, sweetie?” he asks her, earnestly.
“It’s a different world, now, you know? Sleepaway camp feels so risky,” Brett admits.
Matt pats her on the knee. “This isn’t just a camp, though. This is home,” he reassures her.
We watch as Amelia and Finn—our lovely son-in-law—crouch down low and twist their bodies to get the right torque to enable the flat rocks to sail across the surface of the water.
Their laughter catches on the breeze. Amelia squeals with delight as Finn sends each rock flying, even as her own attempts end with a heavy ker-plunk.
Brett leans into me. “She’s growing up so fast,” she whispers.
I kiss her on the head lightly. “I know, kiddo.”
Just then, Amelia tears up the beach, kicking sand and rocks into the air behind her. Her eyes are wide and an expression of sheer joy blankets her face.
"Mommy, look,” she says, pushing a curled fist into Brett’s ribcage. Her tiny hand opens like a blooming flower.
I smile at the universe, grateful that it’s offering exactly what Brett needs. Matt gives my hand a little squeeze.
The tiny piece of glass is unmistakably blue.